Freder looked down at himself. He wore, as all the youths in the “House of the Sons,” the white silk, which they wore but once—the soft, supple shoes, with the noiseless soles. He looked at his friends. He saw these beings who never wearied, unless from sport—who never sweated, unless from sport—who were never out of breath, unless from sport. Beings requiring their joyous games in order that their food and drink might agree with them, in order to be able to sleep well and digest easily. The tables, at which they had all eaten, were laid, as before-hand, with untouched dishes. Wine, golden and purple, embedded in ice or warmth, was there, proffering itself, like the loving little women. Now the music was playing again. It had been silenced when the girlish voice spoke the five soft words: “Look, these are your brothers!” And once more, with her eyes resting on Freder: “Look, these are your brothers!” As one suffocating, Freder sprang up. The masked women stared at him. He dashed to the door. He ran along passages and down steps. He came to the entrance. “Who was that girl?” Perplexed shrugs. Apologies. The occurrence was inexcusable, the servants knew it. Dismissals, in plenty, would be distributed. The Major Domo was pale with anger. “I do not wish,” said Freder, gazing into space, “that anyone should suffer for what has happened. Nobody is to be dismissed ... I do not wish it....” The Major Domo bowed in silence. He was accustomed to whims in the “Club of the Sons.” “Who is the girl ... can nobody tell me?” No. Nobody. But if an inquiry is to be made...? Freder remained silent. He thought of Slim. He shook his head. First slowly, then violently. “No—” One does not set a bloodhound on the track of a sacred, white hind. “Nobody is to inquire about her,” he said, tonelessly. He felt the soulless glance of the strange, hired person upon his face. He felt himself poor and besmirched. In an ill-temper which rendered him as wretched as though he had poison in his veins, he left the club. He walked home as though going into exile. He shut himself up in his work-room and worked. At nights he clung to his instrument and forced the monstrous solitude of Jupiter and Saturn down to him. Nothing could help him—nothing! In an agonising blissful omnipresence stood, before his vision the one, one countenance; the austere countenance of the virgin, the sweet countenance of the mother. A voice spoke: “Look, these are your brothers.” And the glory of the heavens was nothing, and the intoxication of work was nothing. And the conflagration which wiped out the sea could not wipe out the soft voice of the girl: “Look, these are your brothers!” My God, my God— * * * * *